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Irina took her tea black. This was the reliable option. She did not get her hopes up that milk and sugar would be available, and so even when they were she turned them down. She saved sugar cubes for Ilya, so the bitter strength of the leaves was palatable for her honey-eyed son. When there was no sugar left, she added jams and syrups. He deserved all the sweetness she could find him.
Coffee was a privilege to her. It wasn’t until she had her first child that it was even common to see coffee on the shelves, and even longer until there was reliable quality. She savored the rare taste when they were called to a state dinner, or a pot made by the wives of Grigori’s colleagues. A cafe opened when Ilya was just starting to speak, down the block and around the corner. She took him there and sat and sipped and imagined she’d been able to take him to Paris or Milan. Even Prague would do. Just… away.
But at home, always tea. She delighted in the ritual of making it. Boil water, add the tea, wait. It took the time it needed. Time that was respected. Her possessions, a favorite white ceramic cup with orange flowers on the rim, were respected too. All hers. The cup is long lost but Ilya could sculpt it from memory, sitting there on the bedside table, gone as cold as his mother’s hands.
The crisp and deep smell of fresh black tea leaves Ilya still associates with his mother. Maybe it would be a strange cologne to sell but Ilya would buy it in bulk, spraying pillows and doorways to come home through. He keeps his place stocked with loose leaf cans and prefilled bags and continues her ritual when he can, when he finds himself actually at home. The water at hotel breakfast is never hot enough. If he can’t make a respectable cup, he won’t. Bad coffee is better than mediocre tea. But he doesn’t keep coffee at home, she never did, so why would he start now? Not when there’s a Dunkin’ on every corner.
He thought the guys were exaggerating when they used that expression—an English idiom he was not meant to translate word for word. It was not an exaggeration. Which is fine with him as he fucking devours their mocha syrup.
*
“It’s eleven pm.”
“I am late?”
“What? Come inside first—come here. Did you—did you stop for a coffee on the way?”
“No. I got it this morning. Did not finish.”
“It’s eleven pm.”
“Yes congratulations, you know how to read a clock.”
“The caffeine?”
“This? No, it’s nothing. Just a little… how you say, it picks me up.”
“Pick me up. What—no—Rozanov—fuck, put me down.”
“You said to pick you up.”
“The coffee—jesus. No wonder you’re always like this.”
“You want a sip?”
“No! You know what, like—brush your teeth first.”
“Kiss first.”
“Get away from me—”
*
The coffee is not really the point. Even with his limited exposure, Ilya knows that Dunkin’ Donuts is not coffee coffee. It’s access and reliability and comfort. Watered down and easy to drink. Acerbic origins smoothed over in pretty pink and orange. It’s America.
He was not sitting in Russia as a child dreaming of a life in the west. He loves his home, its weird formalities, its legacy, all the ways he recognized himself in the stone and the streets and the sounds. Love doesn’t always equal opportunity though. So he can swallow a diluted rendition of home if it means he can play hockey and send his brother to voicemail and be—. Well.
He likes the concoctions. Likes seeing what new promotional flavor combinations are in stock. Apparently so much that they ask him to name a drink and six months later there’s a Raiders Run on Dunkin’ campaign plastered down the Mass Pike. Marly teased him for his confectionary tastebuds, but no one is laughing now that the whole team has an endless supply. You're welcome for the bottomless coolatta, Cliff.
He shows up to the rink most days with the clear plastic cup in hand. Regular iced coffee, 4 cream, 2 sugars, and whatever flavor syrup he fancied that morning. For some reason this has him on the beverage defensive: He’s burning a lot of calories, Hollander. He runs hot, all of Twitter apparently. He’s not sure why he has to justify his choices to strangers but apparently that’s part of the gig when his caffeine habit is the subject of a national ad campaign.
That’s when he learns that drinking iced coffee year round is apparently a gay thing? He really thought he’d be outed for something more scandalous than this.
*
“It’s ridiculous you won’t even try it.”
“Legally, Hollander, I am not allowed to.”
“That can’t possibly be true.”
“Very serious contract. We shouldn’t even be talking about this.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“Besides it is trash so what is the point of wasting calories.”
“Oh, you care about calories now?”
“I care about loyalty.”
“You’re so fucking ridiculous. And also wrong.”
“I can admit I am not always right, but also I am never wrong.”
“That’s not—you can’t be right and wrong.”
“Says you.”
“Says the English language.”
“Eh, well, I am Russian and in Russian you can say this. It makes sense.”
“Oh my god.”
“So until you learn it, you will just have to trust me.”
“I’m gonna shove Timbits in your mouth the next time you’re in Montreal.”
“Tim’s bits?”
“Timbits.”
“There are other bits I would like more to have in my mouth.”
“Oh my god.”
*
Ilya buys Hollander ginger ale because he doesn’t know how he takes his coffee. Probably doesn’t “do” caffeine, whatever that means. Doesn’t even drink Coke. No, it has to be ginger ale. Pale, tasteless, named after Canada. No wonder. Ilya has a lot of herbal teas. Maybe Hollander would be okay with that? He probably drinks chamomile, no honey or anything. Tea is already kind of boring, so of course Hollander would find a way to be associated.
He keeps meaning to buy a samovar, just for the show of it all. But he never has anyone over that would be impressed by that, the pure opulence and performance of the vessel. He has a fancy espresso machine though—to go with his fancy fridge and dish washer and multi-pressure sink head. Can’t remember the last time he even turned it on or if he knows how to use it.
Ilya pre-fills the kettle with water and drops two matching mugs beside it. Just in case.
*
Jane: I’m going grocery shopping. Anything to add to the list?
Lily: No
Lily: I’m easy
Lily: ;)
Jane: Can you take this seriously. It’s an hour long round trip if we forget anything.
Lily: Condoms
Lily: Lube
Lily: Olive oil in case we run out of lube
Jane: Ilya.
Lily: Okay
Lily: Okay
Lily: I like mint chip ice cream
Jane: I will buy this for you but don’t expect me to eat it.
Lily: Thats okay
Lily: I like it when you watch
Jane: Ilya!
Lily: When you watch me eat ice cream
Lily: You get very cute line between eyebrows
Lily: Like same line when you are tying to steal puck but about my spoon now
Lily: I would give it to you if you just ask
Jane: The puck?
Lily: 😛
Lily: (That is me licking ice cream off you)
Jane: …
Jane: What do you want to drink?
Jane: Coke?
Lily: Yes please
Jane: Coffee? I don’t keep any around.
Lily: Two week supply of The Mochanov, please
Jane: I still cannot believe they let you call it that.
Lily: I still cannot believe you do not support my passions
Jane: Do you have a real answer?
Lily: Boring :((
Lily: I will drink whatever
Jane: Then I’m getting you decaf. We’re supposed to be relaxing.
Lily: You think that would help
Lily: But maybe you do not want to see me without the caffeine
Lily: Maybe I am boring one
Lily: Oh wait you will love that
Lily: We can play chess
Lily: While drinking sparkling water
Lily: And talk about the weather
Jane: Is it too late to uninvite you?
*
All the talk of his mother is bringing shit to the surface he really thought he’d packed away for the summer. He was here, with Shane, not alone in his house trying to fill the sweltering days with something beyond memory. Now it was filled with love—that they’d both acknowledged, no take backs. Except he woke up at 6am not thinking of Shane but Irina. He thought he missed her as much as you could a person, but maybe he just hasn’t had anything he’d wanted to tell her this desperately in a while.
He creeps out of bed and chugs a glass of water. Grabbing a blanket from the couch, he slips it over his shoulders and opens the sliding kitchen door. It’s warm and windy at this hour, sun just starting to peek over the far edge of the lake. He needs to take these thoughts outside. Too big and too messy to contain to their bed. That was for sacred futures, not cursed pasts.
She would have loved it here, she would have loved Shane. Like Ilya does.
An untraced amount of time later, Shane is passing him a mug. Ilya smiles a thank you and brings the cup to his face. He expects coffee, that’s what Shane stocked for him. Pods of Tim Hortons brew, the little shit. They did the job, the last few days, when waking up was like realising you were alive for the first time. He wasn’t tired really, but he needed to be more alert than being with Shane made him. Relaxing was frightening, when this much vulnerability came with it.
Like right now. Like Shane finding him out here. Like being this seen.
“You’re not the only one who notices things,” Shane says.
Ilya smiles, takes the cup into one hand so he can hold Shane’s with the other, and takes his first morning sip of tea.